Chapter Forty-Three

This is it. This dingy little building, tucked between a tattoo parlor and a pharmacy. The dark paint-peeled exterior barely registers at night.

David pulls into a ride share drop off and turns his caution lights on. A gaggle of people hurry to join a line. We overestimated our arrival time and may have spent too long getting chicken, and the concert has already started.

"Is this safe?" Francesca says, wide eyed at the scene.

I point to a blonde gaggle of young women holding out tickets for a man at the front door. "They just went in with Louis Vuitton bags. I think we'll be okay."

"Go in, Vienna, see if you can get tickets," Heddy instructs.

I swallow my nerves and slide open the van door. Jogging up to a window cut into the brick, I find a woman with a blonde pixie cut and a dragon tattoo on her neck sitting low in a chair. Before I can speak, she says:

"We're sold out."

I put my credit card on the counter. "Please. Just one ticket."

"We've been sold out for hours," she explains, looking down. "People get here when we open. I'm just sitting here counting my money."

I look at the people walking through the door. "Well…could it really hurt to have one more person in there? I don't take up a lot of room. I'm fine having sweaty strangers in my personal space."

She flickers her eyes up. "There's a thing called capacity. We're already over it. It's a fire hazard, and I'm on the fire department's radar. I can't afford to get shut down. Again ."

She returns to counting her money, and I tap my fingers, thinking of something else, some other way to make a big gesture.

I guess I could take my top off.

"What time is the concert over?" I ask.

"When it's over."

"Please, is there some way – any way – that I can see Adam?"

Her eyes cast over my body, and she shakes her head. "Honey, the number of girls who came up and asked me the same question today has me considering calling the police. I'm not letting any of you stalkers anywhere near Adam. Okay?"

She shoos me away with her hand. "Now please, leave."

My shoulders drop, and I grumble, "Okay. I'll go."

Insta-stalking could be considered magical and romantic in the right light.

Francesca rolls down her window and yells, "Vienna, what's going on?"

I throw up my arms and begin walking back to the car.

"Wait," the woman in the window calls out. "What is your name?"

I turn around. "Vienna."

"Vienna what?"

"Rose."

"Ha!" She throws her head back. "I'll be damned!"

I run back to the window, not sure what that means, but sensing it must be good news as she's very animated and excited.

The woman tells me, "I own this place. Adam used to tend bar here years ago. I let him play a song or two, then a set. He rented the apartment above for the first few years he lived in Nashville." She smiles, shaking her head. "He always told me, ‘if a Vienna Rose shows up, let her in' . "

My heart skips a beat. I place a hand on my chest.

"That boy waited for you to show up for years. In fact, I found this in my office just this morning."

She passes a piece of paper through the slot in the window. In the same handwriting as the letter in my pocket, it reads: Hey Carla. Just a reminder, if Vienna Rose comes for a ticket, please let her in. Thanks.

My face broadens in a grin. "So, I can go in?" I ask breathlessly.

Carla raises an eyebrow, her mouth curled into a smile as well. "I have strict orders to follow. And if the fire marshal shows up, run." She knocks on the window and yells at the man at the door. "Jerry, let this woman in without a ticket."

He clocks me and gives me a thumb's up.

"One second!" I run back to the car and share, "They're all out of tickets, but they're going to let me in."

"Oh good!" Francesca grabs my hand through the window. "What are you waiting for – go!"

I pause. "What do I do now ? What's my big move?"

Grayson says, "Auntie Vee, hold up my sign."

His parents lean out of the way as he pushes a rolled-up poster board through the passenger side window. He spent all morning working on it. David helped him sound out the words.

I shrug. "Okay, I guess."

"Call us later," Francesca says. "We'll go find a cowboy bar to hang out in. This is still the south, I'm sure most places let kids in."

I take the poster board, nervous and giddy, and tell them all goodbye.

At the entrance door, I'm allowed inside to the dark open room with a long, busy bar all along the side. It's hazy and crowded. Loud. I bump into people right and left, following the sound of cheering and guitar music. The crowd appears to be a mix of college aged and mid-thirties, cowboy boots and Adidas, red wine and Bud Light.

I stand on a second tier of the venue, bunched up against a man with an unsteady grasp on his beer.

A square, low to the ground stage is lit up with lights. A small band plays behind a standing microphone. Adam strings his guitar, and his vocal cords press into the side of his neck. He's smiling, sweaty and broad. My vision tunnels to him, as does everyone else in this room, but he's something to them and something else to me entirely.

Glancing down at the poster board, I decide it's not a bad gesture to get his attention.

I push my way to the bottom floor. The sea of bodies does not part easily, but I search for some spot where I might be noticeable. With the bright lights in his eyes, everyone else must be dark to him.

Adam finishes a song and the crows cheers. He raises his white t-shirt to wipe sweat from his brow, taking a few whistles of appreciation.

"All right, ya'll we're getting off to a good start!" He laughs as the crowd cheers again.

He exhales into the microphone. "This place is pretty special to me. This is the first venue I ever played and, when the time comes, it'll be the last place I ever play."

He looks around at the congregation of fans.

"Coming back here every year, especially during the holidays, means a lot. It means a lot to Kai, too, check him out." He points to the drummer who is bathed in a lit-up Christmas lightbulb necklace.

Kai dangles the bells of his elf hat and rumbles on a drum.

Adam throws his head back and laughs. "Okay, let's keep this train moving. This next song is a new one I wrote, it'll hopefully make it onto my next album. It's called, He Is Me ."

I stand on a stair. People pass me to get to the bathroom or the bar or to move down to the bottom floor. It's shoulder-to-shoulder now.

Adam sings, " I stared down the tunnel of my empty, wounded, tired heart. I gave it all the bandage needed, took acceptance for my part, in the pain and suffering I have caused the reachable, the bruised. I find forgiveness. For me. For you."

Screw it.

I unfold Grayson's poster and hold it up over my head. It's not a boombox, but the sentiment is the same.

"Sorry," I mutter as I slide out of the way.

Everyone passing throws me wide eyes, embarrassed for me and confused, reading the scribbles of a five-year-old with a black Sharpie marker.

He wrote in all capital letters: ADAM! I KLIMD UP THE CHREEHAWS!

Adam continues, " I am letting go of all I've thought but never really felt. Shedding layers of ancient skin, long grievances I've held. I am tired of pretending that I could've been someone new by holding on to this overwhelming sentiment of blue."

My arms begin to get tired. Someone around me is bound to snap and tell me to put it down.

Adam's eyes cast around the room. " I was the idiot, and you were the cautionary tale. I threw myself into it and you were there to watch me fail. We laughed, we cried, got ourselves in a bind, that I can't entangle, not then or now –"

He stops. In the middle of his song, the middle of his verse, our eyes meet. Adam is frozen, his band confused. They eventually go silent too. His eyelids flutter, his mouth cocks into a crooked smile as he reads the sign. After a moment of furrowed brows and mouthing to himself, he finally drops his chest in a heavy exhale.

The crowd whispers to each other. Some follow his eyes to me.

Adam breathes through pinched red cheeks and pulls the guitar strap from his head.

"I know this is unprofessional," he says into the microphone. "But can you guys give me a minute?"

He hands the guitar to another guitar player on the stage and jumps down from the platform.

I drop the sign on the floor next to me. My ears ring, my stomach flutters, but all I see is Adam, coming towards me. He's not Adam Kent right now. He's my Adam, and we're the only two people in the world.

The crowd gasps and whispers to themselves, a rumble of conversation and yelling. Their eyes, and hands, are on him as he moves through them to get to me.

My stomach tightens, nervous.

He stops an inch from my face and immediately asks, "You got my letter?

"Yes," I say, unable to tear my eyes from his. I bite my lip. "I'm sorry, Adam, I'm so sorry about everything."

"Me too," he says softly. "I shouldn't have left like that."

"No, I shouldn't have let you leave. You were right about everything ." My eyes flood as I say something I haven't in fourteen years. "I love you, Adam."

Adam closes his eyes, breathing it in. His arms scoop around me, pressing our heads together, whispering, " I hoped so ."

The crowd cheers and hollers when he pulls back to meet me on the mouth.

I'm tightened in his arms. My hands run through his hair and a tear rolls down the side of my face, and he kisses me in a way that feels unrushed, not heady or lustful, not careful at all. It's our mistletoe kiss if we'd been allowed to give in more. He kisses me like he knows my mouth will be his to touch forever.

Because it will be.